Hidden like
a tear in the heart of the Indian Ocean lies a pearl — and its history too is
written in tears. That pearl is **Sri Lanka**.
From afar,
it looks like a paradise of lush green — its mountains and paddy fields rich
and fertile — yet beneath that beauty burned an unending fire: the deep
fracture of ethnic conflict.
In Sinhala
it is *Sri Lanka*, in Tamil, *Ilankai* — different names, but one land. Once
celebrated as *“The Granary of the East”* and *“The Pearl of the Indian
Ocean”*, its deep harbors and strategic location made it a geopolitical
treasure — from the ancient Silk Route to modern maritime trade paths.
The island’s
history stretches back over three thousand years. Known as *Eelam* in Sangam
literature, the land shared deep cultural ties with southern India. In the
earliest times, the Sinhalese and Tamils lived with a shared faith rooted in
Saivism; the temple bells rang in harmony. But time carried the seeds of
change.
At the
center of that change stood **Devanampiya Tissa**. Around 250 BCE, **Mahinda
Thera**, the son of Emperor Ashoka of India, arrived at Mihintale to spread
Buddhism. That day altered the destiny of the island. Mahinda’s words touched
the king’s heart; Tissa embraced Buddhism. The Sinhalese followed, and from
that moment, Sri Lanka’s path was forever changed.
Under
Buddhism’s influence, the two ethnic groups slowly drifted apart. When Buddhism
later declined in the Indian subcontinent, certain monks in Sri Lanka, fearing
a similar fate, spread a misguided belief: *that the only way to protect
Buddhism was to oppose the Tamils living in the North and East.*
Thus began
the false perception that Tamils were enemies of the faith — sowing the roots
of a rift that deepened into religious, linguistic, and cultural divisions. It
was the first spark of the fire that would one day consume the island’s heart.
Foreign
invasions of Sri Lanka began long before 205 BCE and continued until 1409 CE —
eleven invasions that each left their mark in blood and memory. Then came the
shadow of **colonialism**. In 1505, the Portuguese arrived, followed by the
Dutch, and then the British. In the name of trade, religion, and education,
they reshaped the island’s very identity. Their policy was sharp and simple —
*“Divide and Rule.”* They separated Sinhalese and Tamils, planting the seeds of
a deep and lasting divide.
When Sri
Lanka gained independence in 1948, the colonial fracture was still alive.
Instead of healing it, the new rulers turned it into a political weapon. The
slogan *“One Nation – One Language”* became a symbol of exclusion for the Tamil
people. In education, employment, and administration, Tamils were slowly pushed
out.
Oppressed
and humiliated, they first turned to nonviolent struggle. But peace was
shattered by deceit, suppression, and slaughter. Ethnic massacres became
frequent — and there remained only one response: **armed resistance**.
In the early
1970s, from the dense jungles of the North, a new force emerged — the
**Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE)**, led by **Velupillai Prabhakaran
(Karikalan)**.
This was not
an ordinary armed movement; it was a struggle for identity — a people’s battle
for their land, their language, their right to exist. Thousands of young men
and women dedicated their youth to liberation. What began as a small guerrilla
group evolved, under Prabhakaran’s disciplined leadership, into a full-fledged
military and political organization.
With
structured branches in the Army, Navy, and Air Force — along with departments
for justice, finance, policing, and intelligence — the LTTE functioned as a de
facto state.
The
discipline and dedication of the Tigers astonished the world. Every fighter
carried a cyanide capsule — surrender was not an option. Women fought shoulder
to shoulder with men on the front lines. The *Black Tigers*, the suicide
commando unit, became a symbol of fearlessness and ultimate sacrifice.
At one
point, India — driven by its geopolitical interests — provided training and
arms to the LTTE. But history took a tragic turn when India itself turned
against them.
In 1987,
under the Indo-Lanka Accord, the **Indian Peace Keeping Force (IPKF)** entered
Sri Lanka, claiming to bring peace between Tamils and Sinhalese. But in the
name of peace, they unleashed unspeakable violence on the very people they came
to protect. Hospitals, schools, and homes were bombed. Thousands were killed;
countless women were assaulted. By the time the IPKF withdrew in 1990, the
Tamil people of the North and East were left scarred — body and soul. It was
one of the darkest chapters in Sri Lanka’s modern history.
By the late
1990s, nearly **76% of the territory in the North and East** (Tamil Eelam) was
under LTTE control. Kilinochchi became the administrative capital of Tamil
Eelam. Within its controlled areas operated the **Bank of Tamil Eelam**,
**Tamil Eelam Judiciary**, **Education Board**, and **Radio & Television
Network** — functioning with the structure of a self-governing nation.
Though many
countries branded the LTTE a *terrorist organization*, within its core burned a
single dream — an independent homeland for the Tamil people.
That dream
ended in 2009, in blood and fire. The stories of the Tigers were buried —
whispered only within the walls of old camps. Yet, their era left an indelible
mark on history — a chapter where a people’s hope, a movement’s strength, and a
nation’s division intertwined.
Bound by the
discipline and secrecy of the movement, I could not tell my story while I lived
within it. But after more than twenty-three years — of victories and defeats,
sacrifices and betrayals, joys and griefs — I feel it must no longer remain
untold.
My family
was deeply intertwined with the struggle. My father, firm in his principles,
refused to work for the state; instead, he sowed knowledge among students and
found true purpose in that. My mother was known among the fighters simply as
*“Amma”* — and our home came to be known as *“Amma Veedu”* (Mother’s House).
She stood beside **Thiyaga Theepam Dileepan (Lt. Col. Dileepan)** during his
historic hunger strike unto death — now immortalized in history.
But to truly
see the depth of that history, one must see it through the eyes of those who
lived and fought it — like mine.
My sister
and my brother — they are the living witnesses of the two greatest sorrows that
have marked my life.
In the late
1980s, my sister’s life was claimed by the Indian army — a cruel ripple of the
betrayal committed by Maththaya, then the deputy leader of the Liberation
Tigers of Tamil Eelam, who had aligned himself with the Indian government. Her
death was not just a personal loss; it was the quiet echo of a larger treachery
that shattered countless dreams.
My brother’s
fate was no less tragic. He was betrayed and handed over by members of the
ENDLF — a group that had joined hands with the Indian forces to crush the Tamil
people’s dream of Tamil Eelam. Captured and tortured, he bore the weight of
that betrayal on his body and soul, his suffering becoming a silent testament
to the cruelty of that time.
When Karuna
Amman — once a senior commander of the Tigers — broke the movement’s strict
moral code, looted its funds, and ultimately defected to the Sri Lankan
government, my own life survived by nothing more than fate’s fragile mercy.
Each betrayal cut deep, shaking the very core of who I was. And yet, instead of
breaking me, those wounds only hardened my resolve — binding me even closer to
the cause, to the dream that no bullet or betrayal could erase.
Why did I
join the movement? How did I become a fighter? What training did I undergo?
What missions did I take part in?
This
document will reveal all of it — in five stages. From special operations,
intelligence, and reconnaissance to education, politics, and finance — I lived
through the many faces of the LTTE. Among them, the stories of *undercover
intelligence operatives* are the deepest — nameless heroes whose sacrifices
remain unseen. Telling their stories is my duty.
It is the
*inner chronicle* of the Tamil Eelam liberation struggle — a truthful record of
victories and defeats, heroes and traitors, joy and silence — all woven
together into the living memory of a nation’s fight for freedom.
Sometimes, you may feel that these words do
not sow hope for the future, but rather cast only the shadow of violence. Yet,
there is something you may not know — this was a movement built upon the
sacrifices of thousands of young men and women who devoted themselves entirely
to the liberation of their people. They lived under strict discipline —
forbidding smoking, alcohol, and any form of moral misconduct — and through
their unity and self-control, they astonished the world.
It was not merely
a movement; it was a way of life, a dream, a fortress of principles.
And within the eyes of those who shaped it, there burned an unwavering faith —
a conviction that did not falter even at the cost of their own lives.
How, then, did
such a movement — born of discipline, strength, and sacrifice — disappear from
the map of the world?
When you come to know the answer to that question, you
too will stand stunned by the sheer weight of history. It is then you will
realize — even destruction, at times, can occur with astonishing order and
immense strength.
1. **The
Moment to Board the Boat**
“Not yet… he
said he’ll come after picking up the reel,” she replied, walking toward the
kitchen.
“One thought
only — *I have to survive.*”
“The army
has come to Akka’s house!” I gasped, tying a handkerchief around my bleeding
fingers as I stepped inside.
“They’re
coming here too,” I warned. I tried climbing the wall near the well, but my
strength failed. Rambo Siva’s sister came running — her hands trembling, yet
firm — and helped push me up. I managed to climb over, but couldn’t jump down
this time; it was a shared wall. Jumping into the next yard meant running
straight into the army.
“Don’t bring
him,” said James Anna.
“He’s been
hunted by the army and swam all this way for his life — how can we abandon him
in the sea?” argued Sivam Anna.
“Ever been
at sea before?”
“No… but I
can swim,” I replied with confidence.
“How far can
you swim?”
“Even if you
throw me overboard here, I’ll reach the shore,” I said.
He nodded
slowly. “Alright then… you’re going to suffer a lot,” he said calmly.
Chundikkulam — it was a name I had only come across
in school geography lessons. On the map, it appeared as a tiny blue dot, but
when my feet first touched its soil, that dot turned into a deep, indelible
mark on the map of my life.
The first time I set foot there, the damp air
carried the scent of salt — a strange, invigorating feeling that mingled with
my breath. Around me stretched vast wetlands and beds of sea grass, scattered
here and there with tall, solemn palm trees. Among them flew hundreds of water
birds — creatures that had made this place their homeland. Sometimes a leopard
would slip quietly through the reeds, a herd of deer would dart past, and in
the distance, saltwater crocodiles would glide just beneath the surface.
To the east, the coastline ran parallel to lush coconut groves, forming a green
curtain against the horizon.
As I looked around, a thought passed through my mind: “I must see more
places like this.”
For a fleeting moment, that simple childhood wish felt like a dream fulfilled.
The camp there was called “Ruthiri” (Two–Three),
under the command of Siva Anna.
Although Chundikkulam was known as a bird sanctuary, it was also our stronghold
— a place for fighters to rest, to maintain contact across the sea routes, and
to keep watch over the eastern coast of Vadamarachchi. During that period, no
civilians lived there; the land seemed to belong solely to us. That sense of
freedom and belonging resonated deep within the heart.
By then, life in the movement’s camps was not new to
me; I had already been part of it twice before.
Yet I carried a small, simple longing — despite the countless coconut trees all
around, I had never managed to drink even one tender coconut. I had asked my
comrades many times. They would laugh and say, “Climb up yourself and
drink.”
At last, I told myself, “I should never expect others to meet my needs.”
That thought taught me to climb. From then on, whenever I felt the thirst, the
coconut tree became my companion.
That small habit led to a friendship — with Appaiya
Anna (a senior member of the Central Committee).
He too loved tender coconuts, so he often sought my help.
What began as casual conversations soon turned into long discussions — mostly
about science.
One day, we were talking about aircraft design. His explanations contradicted
what I had read in my books.
“No, Anna… that design is wrong,” I argued.
He laughed, half amused and half annoyed. “You speak like this at fifteen?” he
said.
The disagreement didn’t divide us — it drew us closer. Later, I learned that he
had once worked on aircraft designs in Jaffna. From that day on, I stopped
arguing and started listening.
My friendship wasn’t only with Appaiya Anna; it was
with nature itself.
Wading into the shore to catch prawns, joining others on hunts, hiding boats in
the tidal inlets — these became part of daily life.
Sometimes, we sent wounded comrades to India by sea.
Even now, I can still recall the aroma of those hastily cooked meals, the taste
of salt and smoke blending with the sea breeze — as if it still lingers on my
tongue.
During those days, I remained in Chundikkulam,
waiting for the call to move into the Vanni jungles.
Waiting never felt dull — because through Appaiya Anna, I began to learn the
early history of the movement.
Those stories filled me with wonder, faith, and a growing devotion.
I began to realize — this was not merely an armed struggle; it was a sacred
journey of thought and conviction.
Those moments shaped me, gave me strength, and built within me a quiet resolve.
Even now, the memory remains — the rhythm of the
waves, the whisper of the wind through the palms, the soft laughter of comrades
nearby — all of it feels as if it happened only yesterday.
(Note for readers unfamiliar with Tamil culture: In
Tamil custom, addressing someone older by name is considered disrespectful.
Instead, kinship terms are used — “Anna” means elder brother, and “Akka” means
elder sister. Thus, Siva → Siva Anna; if a woman named Poorani were older, she
would be addressed as Poorani Akka.)
My movement name, my youthful days,
and the times I entered the movement — twice before — all these are markers of
my journey. I will record those memories before returning once more to the soil
of Chundikkulam, where my story continues.
3. ** “The
Name ‘Naveenan’” **
1972 — the
year a new child was born to the Tamil Eelam liberation struggle. It was also
the year I was born. The movement and I were the same age — two lives that
began together, bound by the same destiny. From the day of my birth, my life
became intertwined with the timeline of the struggle itself.
The late 1980s — years when the movement was caught in a dark spiral. In those days, stepping outside required the courage to risk one’s life. Foreign troops had set up camps in every corner of the island; even the shadows behind the trees carried the weight of fear.
*“One day, I
will become a full-fledged fighter and dedicate my life to the liberation of
Tamil Eelam.”*
Two of my
elder brothers had already joined the movement; my parents too were ardent
supporters. My path, therefore, could never have been different — it was a
continuation of their own.
One day,
Raghuparanan looked at me with a gentle smile and said:
> “You
are worthy of the movement. Today, I give you a name…
> From
this day onward, you shall be *‘Naveenan’.*
> Never,
for any reason, should you abandon this name.”
Those words
sank deep into my soul. From that moment, the name became one with my life —
*Naveenan* was no longer just a name; it was my identity, my vow, my very
breath.
Three years
passed. In 1990, Raghuparanan left the country on an important mission. Before
he departed, he told me:
> “When
the mission is complete, you will be with me.”
Six months
before her death, my sister had written me a letter. I only read it much later,
when it was published in the movement’s journal. I can never forget that night.
I sat alone in the middle of the forest, under the dim light of a flickering
lamp. The paper trembled in the wind, and so did my hands. As I read the first
line, my vision blurred.
> “My
dear brother Naveenan, know this…”
Something in
my chest clenched in unbearable pain. After a few moments, the words came into
focus again.
There was
only one sentence in that short letter:
> “Shape
yourself in the way the movement desires.”
Just one
line — yet within that single line, a thousand worlds lay hidden. Its meaning
became clear to me:
>
“Protect your identity.
> Never
abandon the path you have begun.
> Let the
struggle live within you.”
No matter
what trial comes, no matter what storm strikes, I must remain worthy of that
name. That vow was carved into my heart like stone.
As long as I
live, I will keep that name alive — for it was the destiny born with me.
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